


Falling Through A Factory Floor

by Radar_Girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Injury, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radar_Girl/pseuds/Radar_Girl
Summary: Sherlock and John are chasing a subject when they fall through a factory floor.





	Falling Through A Factory Floor

 

Everything looked blurry and a little dark, so Sherlock blinked. And then blinked again.

 

Hole. There was a large hole above his head. A hole in a floor. Yes, that made sense. They had fallen through a floor, hadn't they? He could just about remember that.

 

He coughed and his chest hurt a little. It was dark wherever he was. No lights. And there was dust floating all around him, thick, heavy dust to clog up the lungs.

 

And breathing was so important. John would want him to breathe.

 

Where was John anyway? He normally stuck to Sherlock like a limpet whenever he had hurt himself, so where was he?

 

He shifted himself slightly. He was pleased to discover that while he felt sore all over he wasn't in excruciating pain.

 

Soft, he thought. There was something soft under him...and damp...he could smell it. There was another smell too, chemical and strong...damp and soft...rotting cardboard, that was it. Enough of it to break his fall. Lucky.

 

However, there was something on his hand...something wet...

 

Shakily Sherlock raised his hand up in front of his face and drew in a sharp breath. It was covered in blood.

 

He felt too sore to move his neck very much (moving was probably a bad idea anyway) but was able to glance down just enough to see that the whole of his side was bright red. How did that happen? Had he fallen on something sharp? Speared himself on a jagged piece of wood? It was hard to tell. Still couldn't see much in the gloom. He certainly didn't feel _that_ bad.

 

But it was a lot of blood. Not good. Should probably try and call for John before he passed out.

 

And yet there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind...he was overlooking something....

 

The smell, yes, the smell...the strange, over powering stench...unpleasant, but familiar...if only he could place it...

 

He coughed again.

 

There was something else too....if only his brain would start thinking properly...Lazy brain...one small accident and it wants a holiday....what was it? What was it?

 

A cold breeze blew and Sherlock shivered.

 

Ah! That was it – temperature!His blood didn't feel like the correct temperature...far too cold to be normal, unless it had been outside of his body for so long that it had cooled right down...No, that didn't make much sense...

 

And it wasn't the right consistency for that matter....too thick and smooth...

 

Sherlock felt his brain screaming at him. It should be so simple to work out and yet his thinking was all sluggish and weak. Maybe this is what it felt like to be Anderson even on a good day.

 

Come on, Sherlock!

 

So, his blood didn't smell like blood, or feel like blood, and was the wrong temperature, and -come to think of it – was the wrong shade. Conclusion?....Conclusion? No idea. Try again in a minute.

 

There was loud, hacking coughs coming from nearby. John.

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you there?”

 

Sherlock swallowed and managed a croaky, “John...”

 

John was going to be angry when he saw all the weird-blood. Maybe he wouldn't notice and Sherlock could pretend everything was fine. They could continue to chase the suspect...yes, that's what they had been doing before he had led them through the disused factory...probably knew the floor was unsafe...well, ha ha, he had won this round and made them look like idiots by making them fall through the rotten floorboards onto piles of empty boxes.

 

“I'm coming. Just hang on...Shit! Alright, I'm coming! Just stay still, don't move!”

 

Ah, so he had seen all the weird-blood.

 

John was soon leaning over him, quickly assessing him. His hair looked strangely grey. He was covered in dust too, Sherlock realised after a moment. Slow. It coated the doctor's clothes and face. Sherlock could see a small cut on his left temple, but John seemed otherwise unharmed. Apart from the panic he was trying to suppress.

 

“You're going to be okay,” John said in a forced calm voice. He was pulling his phone out of his pocket. The sight alarmed Sherlock for some reason.

 

“Don't...”

 

“You need an ambulance!”

 

Ambulance meant hospitals and Sherlock despised them. The threat of a hospital stay was enough to give his brain the kick it needed to get it working properly again.

 

At that moment he had solved the case of the weird-blood, or rather the not-blood. It was hardly one of his finest cases, but he had just fallen through a factory floor. An ambulance was not required.

 

But, how to tell John before he summoned an ambulance and embarrassed them both? His words were still a little rusty.

 

He had an idea.

 

Just before John could punch in the final 9, Sherlock had scooped up some of the not-blood onto his fingers and flicked it at John's face. Several bright spots splattered against John's cheek and nose. Confusion and anger flashed across his face.

 

“What the hell -” John began, and then he paid attention to the smell. Frowning, he abandoned his phone to lean in close to Sherlock's “wound” and sniffed deeply. When he sat up straight up again he looked furious, but at himself as just as much at Sherlock.

 

“Paint!” They both said.

 

“We're in a paint factory,” Sherlock reminded him.

 

“We're in a bloody paint factory!” John agreed. He looked wildly around and spied an upturned paint tin not far from where Sherlock lay. He snatched it up and read the label. “Crimson Sunset.”

 

Then he caught Sherlock's eye and they burst out laughing.

 

“No, John, don't make me laugh, it's hurts,” Sherlock begged.

 

“Shut up, you cock! You deserve it. I thought you were dying -again!”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “It wasn't my fault. Not this time anyway.”

 

John shook his head as he sat down heavily next to Sherlock. “Let me check you over properly, though.”

 

Sherlock knocked his hand away as he sat up. “I'm fine. We need to-”

 

John caught hold of his wrist. “I insist,” he said in his Captain Watson Don't You Dare Argue With Me voice.

 

Sherlock sighed heavily, but allowed John to do his thing.

 

In the end John decided that the worst Sherlock had suffered was bruises with a few shallow cuts. But, he still wouldn't allow them to continue the chase, instead dragging Sherlock home.

 

Mrs Hudson nearly screamed when she saw the sight of them, both covered in dust and dirt, and Sherlock's cases, a lovely shade of Crimson Sunset.

 


End file.
